


want your midnights

by bananakarenina



Category: Julie and The Phantoms (TV)
Genre: F/M, M/M, Marijuana, Multi, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:21:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28463760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bananakarenina/pseuds/bananakarenina
Summary: a 2-parter: New Year's 1994 and 2020.Part 1: Sunset Curve on New Year's Eve 1994. Luke is restless and he doesn't know exactly why. "I don’t know, it just feels like…feels like this year is gonna be big, boys,” he says, tapping a skittering rhythm impatiently on the table and making Alex wince. “1995 is our year. 1994 we were the opening act, and in ’95 we’re gonna headline, I know it.”When he looks back up, Reggie's looking at him with a fond smile at the corner of his mouth. It makes him squirm a little, that look.
Relationships: Julie Molina/Luke Patterson, Julie Molina/Luke Patterson/Reggie Peters, Luke Patterson/Reggie Peters (Julie and The Phantoms)
Comments: 9
Kudos: 40





	want your midnights

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fic in literal years, holy crap. I was like, oh, cute Netflix show, and now they're my emotional support teenage ghost band and inspiring me to write, aahhhh. Title is from Taylor Swift's "New Year's Day" because I can't resist TSwift when she's moody and introspective. 
> 
> I was hoping to have Part 2 done by now but work and life got in the way. So this week hopefully, lol. 
> 
> Part 1 warnings for mild underage drinking, teenage marijuana use. Because they were 17 and playing the club scene, okay. 
> 
> Julie & OT3 tags are for part 2.

New Year's Eve 1994 is a Saturday.

Prime party night; it seems like everyone in Los Angeles is out--on the streets, in the bars, and Luke is restless, more than usual. He doesn’t know what it is, can’t put his finger on it, which of course just makes the restlessness worse. He’s taken like three bites of his burger. He can’t sit still (again: more than usual).

“I don’t know, it just feels like…feels like this year is gonna be big, boys,” he says, tapping a skittering rhythm impatiently on the table and making Alex wince. “1995 is _our_ year. 1994 we were the opening act, and in ’95 we’re gonna headline, I know it.”

When he looks back up, Reggie's looking at him with a fond smile at the corner of his mouth. It makes him squirm a little, that look. 

"Come on, Luke,” Bobby says. “I know you’re pouty about being the opener tonight, but this is the best of both worlds--we get to play _and_ we don't miss the ball drop," he says, snagging a fry off of Alex's plate. 

"Seriously, dude," Alex says, batting Bobby away. "We're underage and Bar Violet is Punk Football's turf. They've been on the scene for years and we get to open for them." 

Reggie chimes in last. "Plus they're giving us cash. _And_ a real meal—which you’re not eating, by the way, are you gonna finish those fries?"

He lets Reggie eat the fries, something he probably would have done without Reggie asking, if he’s being honest. He also lets them think it was just him being put out about being the 10pm set and not the 1130. It’s kind of that, but he still can’t shake the feeling that he’s right—that 1995 is going to be legendary for Sunset Curve, that something big is waiting for them, just out of reach. They just have to make it past midnight.

They play; the set is buzzing and electric, and the crowd is way into it, which is awesome. They sell a few t-shirts and let everyone know to look out for their demo CD, set to be recorded in a few weeks. He does have to admit that Reggie was right-- it was kind of nice to not have to worry about emceeing midnight, to just drink his illegally-obtained beer and watch the party unfold.

He sticks close to Alex after, since Alex is the tallest and oldest-looking and therefore can get beer much easier than Bobby’s baby face or even Reggie’s sweet talking, and soon it’s half an hour to midnight, just before Punk Football’s set. Bobby’s in a booth talking to the other band’s bassist, and he sees Reggie in a corner chatting with a pretty girl--dark wavy hair, golden brown skin, green off-the-shoulder crop top. Luke is pretty sure it's the same girl he saw Reggie wink at during his solo in Now Or Never, which by now has become Reg’s signature move. Wail a solo, toss hair, wink at the closest girl he can find. Lather, rinse, repeat. He watches as Reggie leans in close to say something in her ear over the noise of the bar, watches as a smile blooms on the girl's mouth, watches as Reggie lingers there for a moment in the shadow of her face. 

They make a pretty picture. Reggie's pale skin is stark against her warm brown, and she tugs on the collar of his leather jacket playfully, running her hands down the dangling sleeve chain. Reggie grins at her, catching her hand in his.

It’s like watching a movie. Luke knows he's staring but he can’t seem to make himself look away. Weirdly he thinks she would more _right_ in purple, which is a strange thought to have, and that’s when he turns away, unsure where that thought came from, unsure as to why he's feeling so on edge, unsure as to why he suddenly feels like he needs another beer when his is only half-empty. 

It’s not surprising, not really. Reggie loves girls, and girls love Reggie right back. It’s not the same with Luke. He likes girls, and he knows girls like him; they think he's hot or whatever, like looking at his arms, but he knows he can be...intense. He’s really only good at talking about music and eventually girls want to move on to other things. Fair enough, he supposes. 

But Reggie? Reggie loves talking to anyone and everyone about what they love. And girls love that. 

“I’m gonna get some air,” he says, and luckily Alex just says “…okay,” and raises his eyebrow, shrugs. In the alley out back, Luke finishes his beer slowly, leaning his head on the cool brick, trying fruitlessly to see the night sky between the buildings, anything that will let loose the claustrophobia he’s suddenly feeling. “Five minutes!” he hears someone call, and letting out one last breath, he heads back inside. 

He spends midnight with Alex. Bobby seems to be hitting it off with a redhead by the stage; Reggie--and the dark-haired girl--are nowhere to be found. He wonders idly where they are, if they'll kiss at midnight. Everyone in the bar is counting down from ten and Luke says to Alex, "you can kiss me at midnight if you want, I'm probably your best option," and Alex rolls his eyes. 

They don't kiss at midnight, but Alex doesn't move away when Luke laughs and slings an affectionate arm around his shoulders, shouting "happy new year, bro!" so he's not really annoyed. Alex is just kind of tense sometimes about that stuff, that’s all. He told Luke once that he got worried other people would clock him as gay if he was too friendly, too demonstrative, which just made Luke sad to think about. So he keeps his arm there for awhile for Alex’s sake, silently daring anyone to say anything. They don’t, but it’s the thought that counts. 

The night unravels from there. By the time they make it back to the studio it’s after 2; Reggie had reappeared around 1, but by then Bobby had disappeared, presumably with the redhead, which wouldn’t have been a problem except he had the van keys. But they manage to make it back eventually, sloppily unloading all of their equipment and Alex’s kit. Waving a goodnight, Luke makes his way up to the loft, where he’s been sleeping since he yelled in his mother’s face last week and ran away. He hears the van start and rumble away, Bobby heading out to drop off Reggie and Alex, leaving him alone.

He’s just flopped on the old mattress up there with his notebook when he hears boots on the ladder and Reggie appears.

“Sorry—you weren’t planning on sleeping yet, were you?” he says sheepishly, rubbing at the back of his head.

“Nah,” he replies, sitting up on his elbows. “Keyed up. Thought you went with Bobby?”

Reggie shakes his head, looking away. “Didn’t feel like going home,” he mutters, but before Luke can apologize for inadvertently bringing up his turbulent home life, Reggie reaches in his pocket and grins.

“You remember a couple of weeks ago when Danny needed someone to fill in for him on bass at that dive bar in West Hollywood? He gave me his cut--two twenties and a little something extra for the hassle.” He shakes the dime bag lightly, reaching back into his pockets for the red-and-blue bowl he had gotten at a head shop on Venice Beach last summer.

They don’t do this often--usually at parties when people are passing or when one of them gets a windfall like tonight; Luke is fairly sure Reggie only bought the glass pipe because he thought it was pretty and rolling papers are kind of a hassle, not because he’d get a ton of mileage out of it. In any case Luke doesn’t mind extending his night a little—maybe the weed would take the edge off the restlessness that’s been plaguing him all night.

Reggie lets him have first toke because he’s a prince like that. “I was saving it for a special occasion,” he says, looking right in Luke's eyes, lingering there for a few moments past comfort, then glances away with a flash of teeth. “The annual Peters Family Christmas Explosion didn't make the cut this year.” _I was saving it for you_ , his posture seems to say, or maybe that’s just Luke being hopeful.

They pass the bowl back and forth, lighting for each other, and Luke thinks about fitting his mouth precisely on the pipe where Reggie's was, thinks about finding the exact imprint. 

It’s decent stuff, and there’s just enough to make Luke hyperfocused and yearning, sentimental, and Reggie introspective and a little melancholy, pupils blown wide.

“Did you know,” Reggie says, back slouched against the loft rail, looking up through the skylight, “did you know that there are stars—out there! stars!—that have already _died_? They’ve already died but because we’re so far away we can still see them like they're still there. They’re still burning for us, dude. Isn’t that like, fucking mindblowing?”

“Totally,” Luke says. “although it’s Los Angeles, city of smog—we can’t see many of them period, dead or alive.”

It’s the wrong thing to say. Reggie slips a little deeper into melancholy, and his voice hitches a few times as he laments the existence of pollution and the general state of the earth and how when he visited his grandparents in Abilene the sky was lit up like fireworks but it was stars and he’s never seen anything like it. It’s a little hard for Luke to follow, but he’s content to let Reggie’s voice wash over him. He can feel his fingers start to itch for a pen, now that the weed is kicking in and he’s focused. He knows that he might have a killer song in him tonight if he waits.

“I hope we’ll be like that, Luke,” Reggie is saying, and he snaps back to attention.

“Like what?”

“Like…” and Reggie makes a clumsy gesture up to the skylight. “Like the dead stars. I mean, I hope we don’t die soon. But you know what I mean? Even after we’re gone, we’ll still go on shining, you know?”

“Legends,” Luke murmurs, and Reggie nods seriously.

“Legends,” he says, and looks away again. “I think _you’re_ gonna be like that, anyway. Shining bright--forever.”

Luke’s throat is dry. “You’ll be there with me, Reg,” he promises. “I know you will.”

Reggie lights up, gaze snapping happily back to him, and Luke feels the itch in his fingertips again, though he’s not sure if it’s for his notebook or something else entirely.

"Did you kiss that girl at midnight?" he hears himself ask. Reggie smiles wider, showing all his teeth.

"Yeah! Darcy," he says, and then his smile sort of cracks. "Yeah...is that...is that okay?"

Luke's face heats. "Yeah man, that's ah, that’s great. Why...why wouldn't it be okay?"

"I don't...hm. I don't know," Reggie says, a little mournful. 

Luke doesn’t know either, though he’s starting to get an inkling. “Happy new year, Reg,” he says, sincere but redirecting, and Reggie takes the bait.

“Happy new year, Luke,” he says, closing his eyes and smiling again.

Thankfully Reggie falls asleep soon after that, his face turned up to the skylight. There's only a sliver of a moon, and a handful of stars if he squints, so it's probably just the streetlight outside, but Reggie is lit up silver-gray and beautiful, and inspiration thrums through Luke like a bassline. 

He writes the entirety of In Your Starlight in an hour. He spends the night thinking about stars, about connections in the night sky, how maybe he’s a star in a constellation of Bobby and Alex and Reggie, connected by time and space, drawn up in the cosmos. 

He thinks about things that are meant to be.

He writes Bright in the hour before dawn. He almost wakes Reggie up to tell him, to show him the song, to say— _I think we’re written in the stars_ —but something in Luke is saying to wait, that there’s something—someone?—missing, that he’s almost there but the timing is off. It feels the same as the itch from earlier tonight, the “this year is gonna be big” itch. So he lets Reggie sleep, face open and peaceful in the dim light, and closes his notebook. 

He thinks about the way Reggie’s voice sounded when he said “forever," and finally falls asleep.


End file.
